


you're in my blood, you are my blood

by redhouseboys



Category: Kill Your Darlings (2013), The Beat Generation
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I AM GOING TO START A REVOLUTION WITH THIS SHIP, M/M, Sex, Stick around, all kinds of wonderful things kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhouseboys/pseuds/redhouseboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s true: they are inevitable. They are meteors, supernovas full of words, celestial stardust. They are insatiable wolves in the night—and they are going to collide one day or so help them. So help them."</p>
<p>A collection of Carrouac (Jack Kerouac/Lucien Carr) headcanons fleshed out into somewhat coherent prose. Likely more chapters to be posted as I continue to cry over this pairing. </p>
<p>Obviously this story deviates a lot from historical accuracy. Be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this to the wonderful Cindy, who has contributed and helped me create basically all of these headcanons and has practically co-wrote these drabbles. I love you more than life, Kerouac. <3

It starts, like most things, electrically. 

They’re in a dark room on a sweltering day. The sun rays are beaming, eating up the pavement—but here, inside, they have the curtains tightly drawn, the lights shut off, the candles dim. The only things brightening the room, really, are the rays poking through deceptive cracks in the fabric, the candles, of course—and Lucien’s eyes. Blue. Luminous. Deadly. They pierce through Jack, leave him winded, then rove down to their hands, both shaking, both clasping tight to nothing but air. For no reason, Lucien laughs. The air is hot, and it’s rising; the candlelight seems to shiver. All that’s left is blue. 

That’s when the knife appears—all at once, a quick flash of silver. Lucien brandishes it expertly in his left hand, his fingers curled tightly, comfortably about the hilt. There is something so intense in his gaze; an enemy to the sun. “You want this,” he breathes to the man across from him. It isn’t a question. 

Jack lets the breathlessness swing out of him in disbelieving laughter, cracking a lopsided grin. “Yeah, kid,” he mutters, letting Lucien grasp his battered palm. God, he feels high. “Hell yeah, let’s make it official.” 

Without warning, the blade sluices harshly through Jack’s calloused skin. The older man hisses (“jesus, fuck”)—if only out of surprise—before his scowl flourishes into a smile, and then a loss of breath, and then—silence. Gently, he pulls his hand back, and waits. He watches as Lucien does the same to himself, a devious glimmer in the shadows of the boy’s smile, the dark of his irises. Faintly, a siren calls from outside, the noise tumbling its way through the dead city streets. Their chests rise and fall with the wind. 

They’ve both done this before, with others and more than once, but there’s something different—astounding—about the way they press their hands together. Jack’s bones feel like static. When Lucien does it, when he grabs Jack’s hand, interweaves their fingers, making sure their wounds intersect—he brings his face so close it’s like they’re breathing each other. Lucien tastes like cigarettes and ink and blood. His hand is bony and lithe, paper skin stretched across porcelain veins. Jack can feel his pulse, and Lucien’s, and the Earth’s, all at once, and—the air is hot and it’s rising. 

When Lucien finally peels their hands apart, something dissipates. The static is gone. Trembling slightly with echoing electricity, Jack begins reaching for the bandages, clumsily wrapping it about his gouged hand. He offers to do the same for Lucien, but Lucien refuses—digs his fingernails into the bleeding palm, smirks. Then, suddenly, they both start laughing again, and Jack pulls Lucien in and musses up his hair, the heat in the air sinking slowly down, down, down again. They’re bonded now, but they say nothing of it because nothing feels too different. Jack stumbles to the kitchen to grab a cheap bottle of whiskey, Lu blows smoke like tornadoes. They spend the rest of the day getting fucked up, like they always do— until the orange sky bleeds to acrid black and the night calls their names again, luring them out to the city streets. 

(It’s not until later—2AM, to be exact—when Lucien mentions it. They’re lying in bed beside each other, Lucien back down, head up to the ceiling. Their legs are entwined and they’re almost asleep when he says it—and Jack can hear the grin in his voice; it sounds like moonlight. 

“You know, Jack,” Lucien says into the dark, his soft whispers caressing the walls, “I’m yours forever now. And you’re mine.” 

A siren blares from down the street. Lucien falls asleep long before Jack, and Jack spends the rest of the night breathing hard, running his finger gently against the bandage on his palm and just thinking, thinking, thinking eternally.) 

 

_Well—that’s not entirely how it started. The chapters began long before, when they first laid eyes on each other, when they stumbled, drunk, through the streets of New York with a fumbling Allen by their sides. The full story is, admittedly, long; full of ruthlessness and ambition, and hot, blazing fists and eyes and lips, but. But. That night with the blood pact is when the fire first kicked up in their bones. When they realized what they could be, and the, “I’m yours, forever” and the dark room and the heat._

_It’s true: they are inevitable. They are meteors, supernovas full of words, celestial stardust. They are insatiable wolves in the night—and they are going to collide one day or so help them. So help them._


	2. chapter two

Jack first finds out about Lucien’s writing on a grey Sunday. The rain is falling in torrents outside, beating hard against the dingy plaster of the apartment walls. To pass the time, Jack is standing before a tall bookshelf, flipping through a volume or two. He almost doesn’t notice the wafer-thin paper that flutters unassumingly to the ground, but—when it floats down, falling from its place lodged between two old Keats poems, Jack catches it out of his periphery. Letting out a quiet, thoughtful noise, he bends down to pick it up, carefully smoothing out the crinkles and folds. “What in the hell,” he mutters under his breath. For a moment, Jack assumes it’s one of his old pieces—something he tucked away and forgot about, perhaps—but this suspicion quickly subsides as he begins reading. 

The piece is wrecked. Like—just _destroyed_. The majority of it is incoherent slash marks, the harsh stroke of black ink like bleeding tattoos on the parchment. Jack scowls. The words that do pop out from beneath the jungle of deprecation are vibrant and sharp and hateful—full of something bright and sad. It doesn’t read like anything he’s laid eyes on before; it’s choppy and a bit amateur but something about it screams potential to him. Maybe, if the words were rearranged just a bit _here_ , it could _really_ make people think—

It takes him a bit longer to realize that it’s Lucien’s handwriting. 

When he does—he staggers. Lucien has never written before, not as far as Jack knows. Sure, letters and things, but, this isn’t—this isn’t something he’s dabbled in before. Writing. Real, actual, bare and stripped to the bone _poetry_ (and his structure could use a bit of work, too, at that, but there’s still something in it that makes Jack gut twist pleasantly). But it’s here, right before his eyes—and if there’s one thing he knows it’s Lucien’s handwriting; anything of Lucien’s, really, he could recognize it in a heartbeat so this is. This is real. And it’s…actually quite _good_. 

The thought sparks an insatiable excitement in Jack—the prospect of Lu actually exercising his potential, of wanting to do something—but he doesn’t confront the other about it, not just yet. Partly because he doesn’t know how, but mostly because he wants to see if he can find any other discarded works around, and test this whole, “Lu is actually writing poetry and quite well” theory. 

It doesn’t take long. Over the next few weeks, Jack continuously stumbles on more of the crumpled papers. Sometimes, he’ll find them wadded up in haphazard balls in the waste basket, or gathering dust underneath the couch. Other times, they’ve been tossed uncaringly to the highest of places, and when Lu’s not looking or he’s out grabbing another pack of cigarettes Jack will scrabble up to reach them, stowing them neatly away with the pile he’s accumulated. 

The cycle continues until it becomes maddening. Jack can’t help himself. He eats Lu’s words up—mouth waters for it, can’t get enough. Of course, it’s got a lot to be improved, but there’s some serious talent between all of the hash marks and self-deprecating commentary; something raw and ripe and jagged about it all. It’s not flowery, like most stuff he’s seen. It’s angry. Every bit of it, simmering with ire and melancholy. It’s such a god damn breath of fresh air that it makes Jack’s toes curl. 

But Lucien’s slash marks are so vivid that sometimes Jack finds ripped papers. When they are intact, when the piece is coherent enough—then there’s little notes of discouragement in the margins: an arrow pointing to a metaphor and proclaiming _“too cliché”_ ; a _“what the fuck?”_ above a line that’s anywhere short of perfect; or one big _“what the hell do you think you’re doing?”_ written at the top of the page, in sad, bitten letters; all big and bright and wide.

Whenever Jack sees these he wants to waste a whole bottle of white out scrubbing the admonitions away. Whenever he finds a new piece tossed carelessly in the trash he stills, for a moment—watches the way Lu walks out the door, his head ducked, his eyes unusually grey. It’s not right, and Jack knows. The kid has gotta know that he’s got talent. He has to believe that much—that he has a chance, has something he should expand on. He can’t keep throwing shit away like this; it’s burning Jack up. 

It happens when Jack finds two new pieces shoved in the waste basket again. Heatedly, he picks them up, looks at them—and the comments are just _awful_. Worrying, almost. The self-hatred sends Jack’s mind spiraling, and he clutches the papers, tight, between his fingers, afraid they might slip away if he doesn’t. He can’t help it anymore. He’s gotta confront Lucien. 

Without another thought, Jack strides his way into the bedroom where Lucien lounges, taking slow drags of a nearly burnt-out cigarette and closing his eyes. When he sees Jack enter the room he perks up, for a moment, mouth open as if poised to say something sly—but when Jack drops two crumpled pieces of paper into his lap the words ferment at the roof of his mouth. For a moment, silence. 

Lucien picks up the papers—but he doesn’t have to look to know what they are. Instead, his gaze drifts up to Jack, who is not mad, no, not at all. His face is disgustingly imploring, concerned. Lucien swallows down a lump in his throat and snatches the papers up, crushing them in his fist. “How did you find these?” he spits. 

“For Christ’s sake. They were in the trash, Lu, it wasn’t that hard,” Jack murmurs. He tries to reach out for the papers, make sure Lucien doesn’t destroy them beyond repair, but Lucien’s grip is too tight. Grudgingly, Jack relents. “Why haven’t you ever shown me any of your writing before?” 

A pause. Hesitation. Then a half-hearted shrug. Lucien picks his cigarette up again and speaks through a cloud of hazy smoke. “It’s not important,” he says dryly; his voice betrays him, cracking on the last syllable. His eyes are grey again, and he won’t look Jack in the eye. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Finally, Jack manages to snatch the papers back, much to Lucien’s dismay. The younger huffs, his eyes turning to stone and ice, his fingers curling dangerously. But Jack continues on, tenacious, a desperate irritation slipping into his tone. “Don’t worry about it?” he asks, “Why the hell not? You have some serious potential, Lu. You’re _good._ ”

The disbelieving scoff from Lucien is immediate; there’s hardly a hairbreadths of a second between responses. “Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath. 

Jack’s brow furrows even further at this, frustrated. “I’m not fucking around, Lu,” he begins, his voice rising with desperation, “I’m serious. I have read a lot of writing and yours is something else!” 

Lucien boils. His teeth snatch onto his lower lip, sharp canines digging into the supple pink flesh. The one last tug and he’s transferred the pieces into his grasp again, his limbs burning, shoulders drawn defensively together. “I don’t want you to read these. Any of them.” Without another word, he rumples the papers back up and chucks them so hard at the trash can that it wobbles unsteadily on its perch, nearly tipping at the force of it. When Lucien pulls back empty-handed a few moments later, his hands are shaking.

Jack, meanwhile, is frenzied. He makes empty hand gestures, attempting to form words. When he opens his mouth as if to speak, Lucien cuts him off with a shaken but bitter, “Just leave it be, Jack. Jesus,” and Jack smacks his dry lips together, clutching at nothing but hollow air as he tries to find the words to say that will get Lucien to understand. 

He never finds them. Instead, he sits there inanely, and is still there when Lucien storms out of the apartment, door slamming loudly shut behind him. Somewhere in him he knows he could’ve handled this better, but the wild surge of wariness and fear in Lucien’s eyes was just too much. Anxiously, Jack sifts his hands through his hair, breathing out heavy sighs all the while. God, he fucked up. They both fucked up. Jesus. 

Finally, when Jack finds the will to move again, he stands and makes his way over to the trashcan, cautiously reaching for the discarded works and unfolding them, one by one, smoothing his hands against every crease, every rip, every tear. 

 

For two weeks they ignore the problem. The air is tense, like someone took the sun and stretched it, made it fill up their entire apartment with stickiness, with heat. It makes everything they do hurt. When they get drunk together, it doesn’t have the same taste. When they try to have one of their regular heart-to-hearts at dawn, their words fall off brokenly and they sit in supple silence, twiddling their thumbs like awkward school boys. When they hit the town together it’s not the same—their laughter rings like discordant Christmas bells; out of tune, out of life. Everything is too much and not enough and, worst of all, Lucien has stopped writing. 

First it was secretive and now it’s altogether nonexistent. God, Jack hates it. Every morning he goes to check the usual hiding spots—the trash can, beneath the furniture, on top of the shelves: nothing. The nights when Lucien doesn’t come home he tries raiding the room for some sort of evidence, some new hiding spot: still nothing. Lucien has given up completely. Lucien has given up writing and it’s—it’s all Jack’s fault. 

It’s all he can think about. Lucien’s smirks won’t reach the corners of his eyes anymore and it’s his fault. Lucien is smoking more than usual and it’s his fault. Lucien stopped writing and it’s his fault. All Jack had wanted to do was to get Lucien to recognize he had something volatile and vibrant on his hands, but all he really did was pull that bright thing out of his veins with the wrong words, the wrong expressions. If he’d have approached it better. If he’d have been calmer about it, more sincere, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. God, the thoughts kill him, and he wishes Lucien would smile again, or he wishes maybe there’d be a shiny new ball of paper shoved beneath his desk in the morning but, no. Just the same tenseness. The tightness of their smiles. It’s too much, and Jack needs to say something but he’s too fearful that if he does, he’ll just fuck things up worse so he decides not to bring it up again but it’s. It’s too much. 

Far too much for anyone, it seems. Even Lucien. 

They’re sitting on the couch together—Jack on one end, furiously scribbling something onto paper and Lucien on the other, flipping idly through a new thing he’d picked up at the local book shop. Both refuse to speak to each other—so unlike their usual good-heartedness, their playful laughter. The air simmers with stiffness and they’re suffocating beneath it—

“Okay, what’s your problem?”

Startled, Jack looks up from his paper, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “What?” he says. 

Lucien sighs exasperatedly, casting his gaze to the floor beneath him, full eyelashes fluttering. “I tire of the distance, all of the space. The silence. It’s filling me up, Jack. Devouring.” He lets out a harsh breath and turns, the sincere blue of him chilling Jack to ice. “So, I’m asking you to give in and speak to me. Tell me what your problem is.” 

Jack has to fight the urge to melt right into it; he knows now that he has to choose his words prudently, that he can’t always goad the flame on with gasoline. He lets his mind unfold, slowly, prying his hands away from his lap neat and measured before beginning. 

“You’re good at writing.” He can feel Lucien stiffen across from him but, thankfully, the boy says nothing. Jack continues. “I don’t know why you are so set against the idea that you actually possess the talent.” 

The walls practically build themselves, loom above Jack in towering monolithic structures. Lucien draws his knees tighter into his chest, slowly edging away from the man across him. “Why are you so infatuated with my work?” he snaps immediately, the words coming out in a desperate sputter. “Can’t you just get over it?” 

And Jack can’t help it. He gets passionate again, the annoyance creeping steadily into his words. He throws his hands up, clutching at nothing. “I am infatuated because you are good at writing, okay?” he says, impassioned, “and I—I hate to see you give up on yourself, kid.” His tone falters. Jack reaches a tender hand out, moves closer so he can hover over Lucien’s shoulder. “You can’t keep doing that. At least, not with this. _At least._ ” 

There is a moment when they look at each other and their throats grow thick. Open up. Bloom out. Their eyes are blazing—especially Jack’s—with sincerity, with conviction. Lucien’s hands are trembling and Jack reaches for him blindly, putting a gentle hand on the younger’s forearm, his thumb stroking the soft skin through rough fabric. They are wordless and breathless and the tension sinks down into the carpet, bitterly waving goodbye. 

Still, Lucien refuses to say anything in response. He swallows incessantly, his throat so tight and full of so many things. Abruptly, he looks away, teeth biting indents into his lower lip, making copper rain. “I—,” he starts, but—it dies out. Instead, he lets out a long sigh and stares blankly at the wall adjacent to them. 

Jack stews in the silence for a moment, grappling with the right things to say. Eventually, he finds the words, trying to transfer his concern through the soft press of his fingers.  
“Just don’t throw your writing away, okay kid?” _Just don’t throw yourself away. Please_. “Maybe you don’t think it’s good. I don’t know. But whatever you do, don’t give up. And don’t throw it away. It’s worth something. I promise.” 

Lucien looks away. Runs his hands through his hair. Breathes out. The apprehension in his shoulders has not vanishes, muscles still coiled sharply. And maybe his voice cracks when he comes out with a remarkably meek, “Okay,” but the word is there. It’s there. 

Quietly, forlornly, Jack smiles, giving an encouraging pat on Lucien’s shoulder. Beyond that, he doesn’t push it. He knows Lucien has given him as much as he can. The air in the apartment tastes more like stars again. For now, this is enough. 

(A few days later, Jack finds a new piece tucked deftly beneath his pillow. It’s sloppy. The scratch marks are still unforgiving, the comments like lightning—bitter and electric. But. There’s an elegantly scrawled _Thank You_ above the poem, complicatedly simple. 

If Jack’s eyes water, he denies it. Instead, he whites out the awful self-commentary, slips in some of his own modest critique, and carefully tucks it underneath Lu’s pillow. The smile on his face only grows wider as he walks into the kitchen and notices Lucien chewing adamantly on a pen, a world full of blooming, deadly words, right at his fingertips.)


	3. Chapter 3

Lucien is young blood. 

He is so alive with it. He is alight, he burns. He craves chaos, licking his satin lips at the sight, his chest flourishing with it. This is one of the things Jack loves about him. His electricity. His verve. There is so much wildness, so much charisma--he turns heads, he fills the room up. He is the fucking sun, the general of an army, and the entire world is at his command, tiny little soldiers sticking incessantly to the backs of his heels. He makes the chaos he desires. He is a hurricane. 

And the wreckage he leaves is mesmerizing. 

They're at a bar uptown, getting fucked up and drunk on life. Lucien had dragged Jack down, his eyes eating up the city streets, gauging what kind of damage he could do. When they arrived at the unfamiliar pub, Jack had sent Lu a questioning look, but the way Lucien smiled deviously, his whole skin burning with it, made all of Jack's suspicions subside. Whatever happened, it was going to get insane. Jack liked insane. Jack liked Lucien. A whole lot.

Now, here they are, stewing in the familiarity of inebriation. They spend some time lapsing into the comfortable atmosphere, Jack proudly proclaiming that all of the drinks are on him. Then, once they've had a couple of shots, and they're drunk, hanging off of each other, laughing so loud the walls could burst--Lucien pulls Jack aside, his fingers drumming frantic staccatos on Jack's tanned forearms. "What's goin' down?" Jack asks, startled by the sudden movement. 

Lucien grins, wide and ecstatic. "I want to try something different," he murmurs, bringing Jack in close by the back of his neck, their lips nearly touching. Jack's heart pounds wildly at the contact, and he desperately fights the urge to kiss Lucien breathless, curling his fingers into fists to fight the burn. "Follow my lead." 

Lucien lets go just as quickly. Jack stands, gaping, for a moment, trying to shake the daze away. Then, catching onto the act, he breathlessly follows Lucien, slithering deceptively into the bustling crowd of bar-life, the drunken chimes of laughter ringing pleasantly. The air is buzzing, and Jack watches Lucien all the while, his eyes swirling storms of cobalt; blazing, calculating. It makes Jack's gut stir with an antipathetic excitement. The night is hot and full of possibility, and when Lucien grabs his hand to keep him close, Jack's fingers twitch. He smiles. 

Abruptly, they come to a halt. Lucien pulls Jack in tight again, his grip forceful, full of static. He points covertly to a loud-mouthed man, who is spilling his drink all over the counter, slamming his fists down onto the table, laughing grossly. "See that man?" Lucien asks, scowling deeply at the crude comments that spill from his mouth. Jack nods. "I want you to start a fight with him. Hit him, brew up a storm." 

At the idea, Jack reels back. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, staring contemplatively at Lucien, then back to the man again. "Is there a particular reason why?" Then, an idea blooms in Jack's mind and he gets angry, defensive in seconds. "Did he say somethin' bad about you?" 

The grin Lucien shoots back is practically enchanting, and he looks incredibly pleased with himself, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. "Really?" he mutters to himself quietly, before patting Jack good-naturedly on the shoulder. "No. But utilize that fury. Wrangle it into your fists and make that man _bleed_. Please. For me." When Jack doesn't respond, too thoughtful to find words, Lucien continues on with, "I just need to _do_ something tonight. I need this, Kerouac, and you're the only one bright enough to make it happen. _Please._ " 

That's it. That's all it takes. The shine of Lucien's eyes, the angelic angles of his face--he's too mesmerizing to say no to. God, he has Jack wrapped expertly about his finger and there's no way out and Jack doesn't even care. He loves it. "Alright," he relents, shrugging nonchalantly, a lopsided smile stretching his face like elastic. "Why the fuck not? He seems like a dick, anyway." 

Lucien squeezes Jack's hand briefly, devilishly murmuring, "Excellent," before he lets go, slinking off into the darkest shadows of the bar, sending Jack a wink that is nothing short of devious and leaning back so he can drink the entire scene in from a distance. Jack watches him go, eyes lingering. Then, without further ado, he makes his move. 

The man is yelling something obscene when Jack storms up to him, all loud angry boots against the wooden flooring. He comes up behind the man, who is too absorbed in his own conversation to care, and taps him on the shoulder, feigning politeness. With a confused expression, the man turns around and comes face-to-face with none other than a fuming and ruthless Jack Kerouac, a man with iron for fists. "Who the hell are yo--" he begins, but the words lose themselves in the night when Jack easily connects his fists with the man's jaw. 

Immediately, the man reels back, clutching at his face. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he slurs, his voice echoing so loud that the entire bar turns to look. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack catches Lucien lying languorously back in his corner, that catlike smile of his setting off fireworks. "The hell was that for?" 

Jack shrugs, laughing crudely as he shakes his head, fists cocked for another blow. "No idea," he concludes, before lunging in like a fierce lion, hammering on the guy's disgusting face. No sign of relent. 

The fight stretches on and out, and the entire thing is just hypnotic. Patrons of the bar begin shouting out their encouragement as Jack both takes and gives heavy punches, his knuckles bleeding out all the electricity. The whole thing gives him a high that nothing else ever could. The way he can feel Lucien's eyes on his back, silently urging him on. The way the man buckles underneath him, yelling, shouting--all of the dirtiness and the hot, slicked blood of it, making him feel raw and _alive._ Lucien was so right, he thinks, chuckling to himself in the middle of a god damn fistfight. Lucien has the best ideas. 

Unfortunately, however, there is a problem. This man is stronger than either of them seemed to have perceived. And of course, Jack likes a challenge, but when that very challenge begins wailing excessively on him, pinning his wild, bucking form down with one hand while the other is beating his face into a pulp--well. That's when things start to become a problem. Jack fights back with equal force, too much to contain, but it makes it drag for too long. The patrons of the bar get bored, and the bartender is quietly hovering, ready to step in and end it any moment it becomes too dull. 

That's when Lucien jumps in. 

He comes slinking in out of nowhere, a flash of darkness. When he steps into the circle, the man suddenly stops his movements, lifting his fist away from Jack's bloodied face in awe. "What do you want?" he spits to Lucien, acidic. 

At this, Lucien's eyebrows seem to twitch up in thought, and he looks so _deadly_ , like he could cause a hurricane, a wildfire, a lightning storm. Jack's gut twists painfully at the sight. "This is taking too long," he comments dryly, feigning nonchalance as he stares at his fingernails, biting his lip. "I thought I'd step in and settle the score." 

The ugly man scoffs and promptly loosens his grip on Jack, standing so he can get a better look at Lucien. When he does, he scoffs, disgusting laughter bursting out the corners of a wet mouth. "What, _you?_ " he chuckles, pointing an accusing finger at Lucien's lithe, lanky frame. "You think you can take me, pretty boy? Ha!" As he speaks, he stalks progressively closer, until he's inches away from Lucien, his acrid breath blowing in Lucien's face. "Okay. If you really think so, why don't you just go on and try, huh, see what you can accomplis--"

There is a loud, resounding _crack_ that echoes throughout the bar. After that, everything falls into silence.

The man is on the floor before Lucien, collapsed, knocked out cold--still breathing, but unconscious. Lucien's fingers are curled tightly into a fist. Slowly, he pulls it back, staring down at the man before him. Lucien's fingers begin to shake. 

Finally, Jack ruptures the silence, hollering excitedly, jumping to his feet; all excitement, all life. He bounds his way up to Lucien, the biggest, goofiest fucking smile on his face. "Holy shit, Lu!" he admonishes, beaming as he scoops Lucien in to muss up his hair. Lucien's icy demeanor breaks and he laughs. The sounds seems to melt the rest of the tension in the air and casual noise begins filtering back into the bar again, a few shouts and cheers of amazement. "That was fucking fantastic! I didn't know you had it in you!" Then he stares at the man by their feet, giggling like a school boy. "Yeah, how about that, huh? Just got your ass handed to you by _pretty boy_ , didn't ya? Woo! Jesus, Lu! Jesus!" 

And then Lucien is awake, even more so than before. He surges up with energy, looking ready to run a marathon or start a riot or both, all at once. He reaches up and cups Jack face in his hands, bursting with laughter. "Jack, you brilliant bastard," he says, "that was _fantastic._ You didn't just light a spark, you started a whole god damn fire." 

Jack shakes his head rapidly, his grinning stretch up to the corners of his eyes. "No, Jesus, you were the real star of the show," he cuts in. "I had no idea you could do that! Where did all of that come from, huh?" 

Lucien lets go of Jack's face then, his eyes flashing with hunger. "I have a lot of secrets and I love keeping them," he says, before reaching for Jack's hand again, pulling it insistently towards the door. "Now come on. Let's get out of this place. Suddenly it's become very boring. I feel there's a night sky out there waiting to be burnt up." 

"Carr, you are something else." Jack follows Lucien immediately, stumbling out into the hot summer night, his breath dancing on the edge of some new miracle. "You really are something else." 

 

They are so high on life. The incident in the bar has pumped their adrenaline levels up tenfold and now they're screaming through the empty city streets, tumbling their way through open alleyways. Eventually, they get tired of running and stumble their way into a remote field on the other side of town, breathing so hard, trying to wrangle some air back into their lungs. Jack pulls out a silver flask, expertly downs a swig before handing it to Lucien, who does the same. They collapse into the field, too astounded with life to bother going home, watching the night bleed and simmer with stars. 

God, Lucien is so happy--it's in his smile, the electricity of his words. And because of that, _Jack_ is so happy, because he cares about the damn kid way too much, can't help the beat of his heart, the slap of his drumming pulse. He smiles so wide at the sight of Lucien's joy and it's gross. It's devastating. It's beautiful and it's mad and it's so fucked. But Jack feels like he's on top of the city. Like he could climb onto a skyscraper and scream until his lungs rot. 

But, because he's not Godzilla or some shit, he can't do that. So he settles with extending his arms wide, as if he's hugging the grass, embracing the wilderness. "God, Lu," he breathes, eyes full of wonder, drunk only on the smell of the crisp night air, the soft caresses of the wind, the enormity of the sky. "This moment is beautiful. We are so fucking free." 

Lucien's laughter is like moonlight. It curls into the sky and sticks, always looming, luminescent and beautiful. It blends. Jack loves the sound of it. God. "We've got the whole world in our hands, Kerouac," he says, and he's laughing and grasping at the sky like he can touch it, a little drunkenly but the intent behind it has got to be something poetic. Either way, Jack laughs along with him, feeling the elation curling his toes in, rises up out of him. He sits up, reaches out to Lucien, playfully hooks the kid under his arm and gives him one of his trademark noogies, laughing, rolling around in the grass. The happiness fills his chest up, and Lu's smile is so big that he looks like a kid again, just once, and. Jesus. It's so perfect. So perfect. 

Finally, after they've settled down again, they're both sitting side-by-side in the open field, hands brushing faintly against each other's as they lean back against the nearest tree, drinking in the sights and smells. They sit there for a long time, in comfortable silence; it feels so special that way, feels more important when the words aren't there. Something about it makes Jack want to cry like the sappy fucker he secretly is. He just loves the world more than anything and he loves that Lucien is in it. 

Lucien's voice breaks into the silence. It is unusually quiet and small. "Hey, Jack?" he asks. 

Jack perks up, looking affectionately over at the boy at his side, his eyes soft. "Huh, kid?" 

The younger seems to wait a moment, as if deciding whether or not he wants to follow through with it. He bites his lip, his blue eyes shining effervescently in the otherwise stark black of nighttime. Jack waits patiently for his words, and what Lu eventually comes out with isn't what he expected, but damn is it the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. 

"I think this is the happiest I've ever been." 

They let the words sink in. It takes a minute, because Lucien's voice was maybe a little wet and maybe Jack is getting too god damn sentimental. He wants to blame it on the drunkenness but truthfully, he feels incredibly sober. Jack sits back, grinning that stupid goofy grin of his, beyond content. Tenderly, he says, "Stick with me and I'll make sure there's plenty more where that came from." His voice is quiet, too; nearly inaudible. 

Lucien gravitates. He scoots closer towards Jack, face breaking into a blinding smile. "I'm not going anywhere," he responds. Jack's heart beat quickens. 

"You better make that a fucking promise." 

"You want to fucking pinkie swear, Kerouac?" Another breathless laugh. Lucien holds out his pinkie and Jack just shakes his head in winded disbelief. 

"You're a child," he says, but he follows through with it anyway, twining their pinkies together. They're both laughing, like always with tonight, holding on tight. The entire world is open and wide and they're laughing over some dumb child's pact of truth, feeling more alive than they ever have. God, it couldn't get any better than this, Jack's sure of it. 

That is, until Lucien gently pries a part their hands. And turns so he can face Jack completely. And reaches out to caress Jack's cheek, softly. And pulls Jack in for a kiss. 

There is no frozen surprise. There is no moment of shock, no time for racing thoughts. Rather, the two simply melt into each other, the inevitability too much to ignore. Eagerly, Jack returns the kiss, his eyelids sliding slowly shut, his hands going for the back of Lucien's neck, pulling him in closer, closer. They kiss long and slow and hard and fast, all at once, lips colliding easily, falling into each other. Lucien is good. Very good. He nips at Jack's lower lip, staring up at him from beneath feathered eyelashes, before surging in with closed eyes again, his lips wet and bright and hot and beautiful. Jack can't help it. His gut feels like it's being rattled and twisted. His hand travels down, down, down, until it's at the small of Lucien's back, and they're getting closer, closer, trying to eliminate as much space between their bodies as possible. This continues on for quite a while, until finally the need for air overtakes them and they pull back, breathing so hard, their eyes burning with something new, something fierce. 

There is no moment of awkwardness afterwards, either. No, cliched, _holy shit, we just did that_ , no blazing shame, no embarrassed faces. Instead, Jack just whistles lowly in appreciative astonishment, eyeing Lu up and biting his lip. He can't find the words. He's bereft of them, his breath scooped out, his stomach pleasantly hollow. 

Lucien seems to speak for him. A trademark smirk graces his lips. "Better than you imagined?" he ask devilishly, his hands still curled in Jack's hair. 

"Fucking blew me away," Jack responds, his laugh loose and warm and familiar. His heart is still hammering so fast and so loud he's sure Lucien can hear it. He's in bliss. 

Wickedly, Lucien's eyes grow dark and cloudy, something that makes Jack want to surge forward and kiss him again. Instead, Lucien says, "You were pretty good yourself, Kerouac," his hand traveling to tickle at the back of Jack's neck, deft fingers and ghost-like touches making Jack's skin crawl. 

"Of course," Jack continues on, his breathing shaky, "Plus, you wouldn't mind me practicing with you? They say practice makes perfect, you know." 

Lucien hisses playfully. "Hm. Wouldn't have expected a cliche from you," he mutters, and Jack rolls his eyes, snorting lightly. "But--you know me, Kerouac. I'm your very own open canvas. All yours." As if to prove his point, he lets go of Jack, splays his arms out wide and open to the night sky, displaying the pale curves of his skin, the contours of his body swaddled in a dark blue sweater. "Have at me." 

Jack winks. "Don't mind if I do," he responds, before reaching forward to kiss Lucien again, their mouths sloppy and wet in the hot August night. 

They spend of the rest of the night making out lazily in the open field, too busy to care about the sky bleeding into dawn. When they finally pull back and stumble home, they're laughing and punching each other's shoulders, and if they fall into bed together, curled around each other, it doesn't feel like anything new, really. It feels all too natural, all too bright. The chaos that Lucien stirs up and lives in, and Jack Kerouac is a part of, just like it's always been. Just like it's always been.


	4. chapter four

Jack likes his coffee black. Lucien pours in three or four spoons of sugar, adds in a generous splash of milk and even then, complains about bitterness. Jack always teases him; "Why the hell are you drinking coffee, then?" Lucien just hisses and mutters something about caffeine, the circles under his eyes prominent and dark. 

Jack sleeps like a fucking bear. Lucien is always energy, always too much, threatening to be reigned in. He has a hard time sleeping, most nights. While Jack can sleep through most anything, knocked out like a light, Lucien startles at the smallest of things, rousing awake at the rustle of papers, the howl of the wind. Lucien rouses awake at nightmares, too. But those nights are harder. They don't talk about those nights. 

Jack prefers spooning. While Lucien likes this, too, he's always liked it best when he's got his head resting on Jack's chest so it rises and falls with his steady breathing, one arm curled around him, gentle and soft. Either way, it's good to both of them. As long as they're close. As long as they're close. 

Jack likes whiskey. Lucien prefers fine wine, imported and expensive. Often, they'll steal either of these from wherever they can snatch it. Then they'll drink straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth and collapsing in an alleyway somewhere, feeling elated, laughing so hard it hurts. Those nights, they stumble back into their apartment, kissing sloppily, ripping at clothes, their moans filthy and loud enough for the neighbors to hear. 

Jack is relatively quiet during sex; just heavy breathing, grunts and groans, tight hands and hot lips. Lucien is _loud._ He makes the most debauched noises, his toes curling when Jack fucks into him, his eyes dark and sinful, his body tensed on the edge of a climax. He moans, whimpers, says filthy things, like, "oh god, harder, faster, jesus Jack, fuck me, fuck me, please," and, well. It's words like that which have the ability to put Jack on Lucien's same level of decibels. 

Jack tends to say sweet, intimate things during sex; whispers them into the crook of Lucien's ear, making him moan louder, making him grasp desperately for Jack's hand to intertwine their fingers. Lucien is a dirty talker. While he appreciates and adores the intimacy, he can't get enough of the way Jack's eyes widen when he says the lewdest of things, ravages Jack's neck, mutters all of his plans and desires into Jack's ear while taking his cock in hand, or while getting pinned down against the couch, or while getting fucked, hard and fast. Lucien is the darkest, most seductive problem Jack's ever had. 

Jack and Lucien both love the taste of cigarettes. They run through multiple packs per day, the thought that it could kill them making it all the more appealing. Sometimes, they share smokes, and other times they'll shot gun it; Jack taking a long, steady drag, tipping Lucien's chin back, their lips barely touching as they pass the smoke, eyes lidded and storming. And Lucien will breathe it in, let it sink, before he lets it drift out of him, right in Jack's face as Jack breathes in the secondhand. Cigarettes are comfortable. Cigarettes are routine. 

Jack and Lucien both love going out. They do it nearly every night, high on life, bursting with it. They like to get drunk, or get fucked up, or do devious things. Once, they dined and dashed at a restaurant while out on a date. Other times, they start more bar fights, get their names known around town. _"Oh yeah, you definitely don't want to fuck with those guys, not them. They're tough shit. Watch out for the pretty one. He don't look it but he's got hands that could kill."_ On other occasions, they simply go out to enjoy the outdoors, out to their favorite spot by the docks, or that grass field where they first kissed, the memory something vivid. They live. They understand the limits of life and they live it, as much as they can. They come home, they fuck, they write, they do it over again. Endless cycle. 

Jack and Lucien both love having heart-to-hearts at dawn, when they're wide awake and Lucien's curled up on the couch because he couldn't sleep. Lucien doesn't always talk too much when these happen but then sometimes he'll burst out with something extremely hidden, extremely close, extremely personal. Then he'll get frustrated with himself, sink his fingers into his palm and look away. Those times, Jack will come up beside him and plant a gentle kiss on his head in reassurance. They stop talking there. But in the morning, when they wake up, they feel better, feel cleaned out of something rotten, if only for a little while. 

Jack and Lucien are both sad. Jack is always sleeping and always tired. Drinks too much. More than Lucien. Remembers the past too much. Lucien has days where he goes mute. He spends those afternoons staring blankly out the open window, his hands gripping so tight onto its frame that the splintering wood threatens to break. He pulls away with gashes in his hands but Jack can never clean them because they're trembling too hard. He is full of bloody memories from the past. Those are the days when Jack is so glad David Kammerer is dead. Sick fucking bastard. He just wishes he could've died some other way. Some other way that doesn't stain Lucien's dreams, his thoughts. Jack knows Lucien thinks about that a lot, so those days Jack stays close, making sure Lucien doesn't do anything drastic, curling his fingers in Lucien's hair and just stroking, gently, not saying a word. 

Jack and Lucien both love music. Can't get enough. Often, they'll go out to jazz clubs, get drunk and tap along to the insatiable rhythm, laughing and mesmerized by the vivaciousness of all the players, the sheer talent. Other times, when they're at home on rainy days with nothing to do, Lucien will put on a record and they'll splay themselves across the floor, yelling above the music about something stupid, just having fun like a couple of jazz age idiots. The more the conservatives say they hate it, the more the two continue to listen. Drink in the music. 

Jack and Lucien both love each other. They haven't said it like that yet, neither of them, but they do. It's in each gentle caress, each moan in the night, each bar fight, each smirk, each empty night spent crying into each other's shoulders. In some ways, they are very alike, and others they are very different, but what they know to be true is that they are disastrous together, and that's what makes it burn so hot. They love each other. It is inevitable, and it has always been. So they kiss hard, and they fuck hard, and they live hard, because they love each other like hurricanes; wildly and destructively.


	5. chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sex is wild.

_Morning_

Lucien does not sleep easy. He tosses, he turns. He is awake too much, alive too much, never asleep, never idle. This means he wakes up easy. He gets up incredibly early in the mornings, rising with the slow curve of the sunlight, rubs at his eyes, shakes out his hair and he's already vivid. Lately, though, this has become a point of frustration for him, because Jack sleeps like he's hibernating every night, and is incredibly hard to rouse. This leaves Lucien alone for most of the mornings, buzzing about the house by himself, and while he enjoys solitude, he'd much prefer Jack awake and discoursing with him, or kissing him slow and lazy, like how all mornings should be. 

On this morning in particular, Lucien is craving. He feels like today is something important and he wants Jack to be up and about, wants to get started on it as soon as possible, even though he doesn't quite know what _it_ is. As he sits up in bed, gently shaking himself free of Jack's bear-like grasp, he stares frustratedly down at Jack, lips sealed together in thought. He attempts to shake Jack away but that doesn't work. At this rate, Jack won't be up until the late afternoon. Lucien grumbles. Incredible that he is even with this man. Really. 

That's when an idea sparks up. Lucien's eyes go bright with it. He cocks his head gently to the side, muttering nonsense to himself. Fine, if Jack won't wake up the normal way, Lucien's going to have to find another way. Some way to....stimulate him. In the dim light of morning, Lucien smirks. 

Catlike, Lucien begins by crawling deftly on top of Jack, coming close to the relaxed lines of his sleeping face. He starts at Jack's ear, lips just barely touching, breathing hot air into the gentile curves. Then he reaches out and nips, lightly, at Jack's earlobe. The kisses continue as he trails his way lazily down Jack's neck, lips slow and burning. When Jack still shows no signs of waking, Lucien begins sucking a deep bruise at the junction where neck meets shoulder, and sucking hard, his lips red with it. 

This seems to be sufficient enough in waking Jack up. Slowly, Jack blinks awake, not all that quick to come to. But when he does, his eyes widen, hand immediately sinking into Lucien's hair, threading through the soft blond strands. "Oh," he breathes out, eyes still half-lidded as he stares down at Lucien, who is still licking and sucking all along Jack's exposed neck. "Wake up call, huh?" 

"Good morning," Lucien mutters into Jack's skin, smiling, before surging quickly up to meet Jack's lips. They kiss slow, languorous and lovely, for a while. Jack's hand twists tighter into Lucien's hair, making Lucien moan quietly into the kiss, involuntarily grinding his hard-on down onto Jack's own. Jack gasps at this, pulls back. 

"Shit," he mutters, voice still slurred from his sudden awakening. Lucien presses his forehead against Jack's, eyes dark and intense. "Shit," Jack repeats, breath leaving him in languid gasps. "Good morning, indeed." 

"Mmm," Lucien murmurs in response, his lips trailing back down to Jack's neck again, and then further still, all along Jack's bare chest. Jack lets out a shaky breath at this, the feel of Lucien's lips against his skin making his body go wild. His hard-on is already prominent, straining at his boxers. Jack can see, from his periphery, that Lu's is the same. But still Lu goes slow, idly taking his time. Something about it is incredibly relaxing. Jack sinks into the feel of it. Lucien comes back up to kiss his lips again and they grind onto each other, all heavy breathing and quiet moans in the orange sunrise. 

Lucien is burning another hickey into Jack's neck when he reaches swiftly into Jack's boxers and takes his cock in hand, stroking it steadily. Jack bucks his hips up, choking on a gasp. "Fuck, Lu," he stutters, and Lucien smirks into his skin. Jack feels on fire, completely awake now. "Can I touch you?" 

Lucien moans. "Yes. Please," he answers brokenly, eagerly pulling his head back so he can look Jack in the eye, their gazes blazing, heavy lidded. When Jack takes Lucien in hand Lucien whimpers, lets his forehead fall and collide with Jack's own, closing his eyes and hissing between his teeth, all the while keeping his own rhythm with Jack. They sink into it, easy. 

That morning, they jack each other off to climax, gasping into each other's mouths, their moans long and low in the quiet of the morning. When Jack comes, he whispers Lucien name, and Lucien follows shortly after, his chest heaving wildly. After they relished in the bliss of it all, letting it swirl about their hands, Jack turns to Lu, his head resting on a propped elbow, eyes round and wide and awakened. 

"You should wake me up like that more often," he purrs, the sunlight hitting the hard angles of his face. "My own personal alarm clock." 

Lucien laughs. "It's the only way you'll get up before 3PM, you dirty bastard," he mutters, shoving a pillow playfully in Jack's face. 

The sun continues to rise, bleeding red and orange and pink through the window pane, their laughter echoing. The start of a good day; Lucien can feel it. 

 

 

_Afternoon_

It's rough. It's tangled. It's tense and hard and fucking gorgeous. 

They're on the couch, didn't have the decency to make it to the bed. Jack's got Lucien pinned down, wrists above his head. Lucien has been talking filthy all day while they were out with friends, whispering lewd things into his ear, making Jack squirm on the edge of his seat. When they finally got home, Jack had immediately pushed Lucien into the wall, kissing him so hard he's sure their lips have bruised. Presently, they've stumbled their way to the couch, ripped each other's clothes off and now lay bare and exposed, their hands grabbing at all the skin they can find, frantic and yearning. 

Jack's got his head between Lucien's legs, sucking his cock filthily, so good, when Lucien blurts it out, loudly; he's sure the neighbors can hear. "God, fuck me," he shouts, his voice wobbling unsteadily, his breaths shaky and uneven. Jack slides his mouth off of Lucien's dick with a loud _pop_ noise, and stares up at Lucien, his gaze swimming with intensity. 

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, reaching up so he can kiss Lucien breathless, make sure the younger can taste himself. Lucien's back arches at the swiftness of Jack's tongue, and he moans into it. When Jack pulls back, he stares down at Lucien, hand smoothing its way down his torso. "Lu, you're so hot like this. I can't take it. I just wanna--" 

"Fuck me?" Lucien asks immediately, eyebrows raised. "Fuck me so hard that the muses write songs about it? Fuck me so hard that the only thing I'll be saying in my sleep is your name? Fuck me so hard that I--" 

" _Yes_ , holy shit," Jack breathes out, his chest heaving shakily. Lucien smirks, impish little shit, proud of himself and the unswaying grip he has on the man above him. Jack continues, his breath scooped out of his chest. "I'm gonna give you exactly what you want. I'm gonna give you everything." 

Lucien lets out a long groan at the words, his eyes narrowing into sinful slits of cobalt. "Then do it already," he chimes impatiently, fingers swarming with passion. "I haven't got all day, you know." 

Jack nods. Frantically, he turns his head this way and that, searching, fumbling. "Shit, where's the lube?" he asks, reaching in his discarded pants' pocket, coming up empty handed. "Do you know?" 

Scowling, Lucien shakes his head. "No--" he begins, before an idea sparks up, and he yanks Jack back down onto him, bringing him so close their noses touch. Jack startles, opens his mouth to say something, but Lucien cuts him off. "But I've got an idea. Give me your fingers." 

Immediately, Jack _knows_ what this is, and his eyes go heavy and dark as he brings his fingers up to Lucien's grasp. When Lucien takes them into his mouth, sucking on them, dirty and hot, Jack can't help it; he moans, breathing out a string of curses. "Lu, Jesus," he sputters, breath coming in sharp, short gasps as Lucien's hot mouth sinks further down onto his fingers, slicking them up, making them wet. "You're a fucking genius." 

Finally, once Jack's fingers are generously slicked, Lucien pops them out of his mouth, grinning wide and bright. "I know," he replies boastfully. "Now come on. I don't like when people don't follow through on their promises. Especially when they're about fucking me." 

Jack takes this as more than enough incentive to start. He begins by spreading Lucien's legs carefully apart, and before they know it he's sinking a single finger inside Lucien, fucking him slow and deep with it. Lucien's head falls back against the couches' arm and he lets out a completely debauched noise, his eyelids sliding slowly shut. They set a steady rhythm until Jack's got three of them in, and Lucien's legs are shaking, his toes curling inward as Jack's fingers curl inside of him, a string of dirty moans pouring from his lips. Jack's erection strains painfully at the sight of Lucien, head back and legs spread apart for him. It's all too much, and when Lucien opens his eyes and sends Jack a _look_ , Jack is incredibly grateful to finally get to follow through with Lu's demands. He pulls his fingers out hurriedly, slicks on a condom. All the while, Lucien watches him, something impatient in his gaze. Eventually, though, Jack's got himself lined up with Lucien's entrance and now he's sinking into Lucien, and, "Oh, God," he stutters out, one hand clutching tight to the couch, the other on Lucien's hip. "Fuck, you feel so good." 

"Come on," Lucien whines suddenly, bucking his hips for some sort of movement, his lips bitten and red and beautiful. "Move. Please. _Please._

Without further ado, Jack complies. 

Jack thrusts into Lucien's hard, and each time Lucien is there thrusting back up, his breaths so short and hot and wild, his hair messed up and his eyes bright. Jack goes crazy at the sight of him, can't help himself from going harder, faster, and even when he does it doesn't seem enough. Lucien keeps spitting out a string of, "harder, oh god please, fuck me harder," or "faster," or "oh yeah, right there" and it's just so much. Jack lets out a long groan, falling forward a little so he's hovering over Lucien, his hips rolling into him with each thrust. Lucien, at this point, is screaming Jack's name, and they're so close, both of them, so on edge, and then Lucien is choking out, "Touch me, Jack, please," and Jack is reaching forward, taking Lucien in hand, nothing but gasps and groans and then--

They hit the climax together. Lucien lets out something like a choked-off moan, his mouth open wide, his back arching sinfully. Jack yells _"fuck"_ so loudly that it echoes and bounces off the walls, and his hips stutter on one last thrust as he comes with Lucien, choking on a gasp. Their chests are heaving so hard it's as if they've just run a marathon. 

When they finally come down, pulled apart, and have regained enough breath, they're both fucking wrecked. Lucien is all bitten and marked up, looking absolutely beautifully debauched. Jack's hair is tangled and mussed, his eyes burning with leftover electricity. "Jesus, you are brilliant. That was so good, Lu. Holy shit." 

Lucien lets out a long, contented noise, sinking pack into the upholstery of the couch, his eyelids fluttering closed. "You fuck almost as good as you write, Kerouac," he comments back, chest shaking a bit with laughter. Jack laughs, too, reaching forward to kiss Lucien affectionately. 

For such a hard fuck, they end up cuddling more tenderly than ever, wrapped around each other, fingers intertwined as they fall asleep, only to wake up again when the bustle of the night calls their names. 

 

_Evening_

Jack is fucking into him so slow that it burns, God it's so good. Lucien has always liked it rough but there is something so close and intimate about this; it's refreshing, it's bone-shaking and it makes his heart beat so hard against his chest, he feels he might burst. 

"You're so beautiful," Jack whispers it to him, forehead pressed against his, staring down at him with more love and adoration Lucien feels he deserves. All Lucien can do is moan louder, loving the way Jack moves so slow and yet so deep, his cock filing him up, making his entire core shake with want. "Jesus, Lu, I don't know if you understand how beautiful you are when you're like this--" he stutters on a gasp as Lucien pulls his legs around Jack to sink him in even deeper, bring him in even closer. It feels so good that Lucien's moans are turning to desperate whimpers, and he moves in tandem with Jack, slow and fluid. 

The night is dim and they are making love in the shadows of it, the only light the pale stream of the moon fluttering in through the sheer curtains. Jack keeps muttering sweet nothings, promises, confessions, all kinds of poetic things and Lucien's chest feels so tight. He grabs at Jack's hair, his eyes sliding closed. He feels himself edging closer and closer, and Jack is still saying things to him, things that are pushing him harder, and Jack is still fucking him so tenderly, like he's important, like he deserves all the love in the world, and Lucien. Lucien doesn't know how to handle that. He grabs for Jack's hand and sweetly intertwines their fingers. It's all he can do. 

"I promise I'm never going to leave you." And Lucien's eyes start stinging; he gasps so loud he sounds like he's crying, his moans climbing in pitch. "I promise, Lu. You're the ocean. You're everywhere I go. I couldn't ever leave that behind, I--" 

"I love you," Lucien blurts out, suddenly. For a moment, Jack falls into awed silence. Of course, _Jack_ has said this before, on multiple occasions; sometimes on nights like these, sometimes on the days when Lucien can't seem to speak, can only cry. But _Lucien_ , he's been far too afraid to utter the words himself, too prudent with himself. The memories of something fierce and bloody stain his eyes when he thinks about the words, because up until now they've always been used as lies to destroy him, as obsessive admonitions to justify abuse. 

But here, with Jack so close to him, filling him up, kissing his body all over, saying these sorts of things--Lucien can't help it. The words tumble out of him against his own volition and when they leave he isn't that ashamed of them, isn't all that scared. In fact, it feels so right that it only brings him closer, and when Jack says "God, I love you too" and surges forward to kiss him, press his lips against Lucien's own, Lucien comes immediately--doesn't even have to be touched. He moans so loud into the kiss as he hits climax, his eyes stinging and wet in the best possible way. Jack doesn't take long to follow him, just a few more stuttered thrusts and he's gone, gasping into Lucien's mouth. "I love you," he repeats, gently reaching out to caress Lucien's face, "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

(After they've pulled apart, Jack still won't stop saying it. Lucien relishes in each utterance, the last one muttered into his hair before Jack falls asleep, arms tucked tight around Lucien. "Kerouac, you fucking fool," Lucien whispers into the night, knowing Jack is already too far gone to hear him. "You've made me fall in love with you.")


	6. Chapter 6

Lucien leaves, sometimes. 

Jack has come to expect it. He has also come to expect that when he finds Lu again, three towns over, stumbling hotly into the lives of some doe-eyed star catchers --captivated by the catlike lilt of Lucien's words--he is either far too high, or far too sober. 

It is the second time this year that Lucien has run away, and Jack finds him at a bar in Queens, hopped up on Benzedrine and swirling wine glasses between the dexterous cradles of his spider-like fingers. There is a congregation huddled about him as he ripples and sparks, eyes wide and cracked with the weight of a crumbling high, mouth spitting forth philosophy after philosophy. And all of the men and women in the bar are ensnared by him, caught in the tangled net of his prose-like speech, though they doubtfully understand it. He looks normal--well, far from the standard definition, but normal enough for _Lucien_ , if ever such a word could be attached to his skin. Yet Jack is not stupid. To him, Lucien is translucent. 

It could've been David, it could've been the paranoia that has long-grown in his soul, the shaking feeling of love too much as it coiled in his stomach. Whatever reason, Lucien is terrified. His hands shake imperceptibly as he makes wild gestures with them, his eyes are depthless, more-so than usual, as if the secrets they were meant to hide have burrowed so deep into him not even Jack can touch that aura of mystery anymore. Lucien's cracks are shimmering and wide open, wounds sprinkled with salt and hung out to dry on a dangling thread so that even the excitement in his eyes is feigned by drink and drug, by the blood of red wine. Weightily, Jack Kerouac sighs and saunters through the bar, pushes away the heavy craving in his heart to order himself a drink and makes his way to Lucien instead. 

Lucien does not notice him, at first. He is too busy excitedly chirping about some Nietzsche-derived ideal to a young-looking man with oil slick curls, who is smoking a cigarette and just nodding, nodding, nodding. Jack feels his heart and his hands pounding with nervousness as he stalks closer but he quells it, taps Lucien gently on the shoulder, swallowing hard. Lucien feels it, seems to brim with delight at the prospect of something new to charm and love and confuse. He spins about on his heel, ignoring the smoking man, and surprisingly enough, lights up upon seeing Jack's face. 

"Jack!" Lucien exclaims, grabbing Jack heartily by the shoulders and shaking a bit, leaving Jack befuddled and wide-eyed. "Just the man I'd like to sit down and have a drink with. Most of the people at this bar are incredibly dull, Wendle here sells cars for a living, I fear the world has dealt him a very narrow hand," Lucien prattles, gesturing to the sighing man flippantly. Jack opens his mouth to hedge a word in, but Lu cuts him off, exuberant, spinning him about and leading him to the bar. "Now come on, Jack my boy, I know you'd like a whiskey on me, wouldn't you? Can't pass up a free drink, especially not one that Lucien Carr offers, those are quite the rarity. God, I am so glad you stumbled your way to this place. It is startling how little these people understand--I have asked around and not a single one here has even heard of Yeats, which is a monstrosity--"

"Lu," Jack cuts in, feeling his throat converge tightly as he watches Lu's hands shake, violent and sad. "Lu, listen, I'm not--"

"Bartender, two whiskeys, on the rocks, put it on my tab," Lucien calls out, completely ignoring Jack's fruitless words, tapping his fingers against the bartop in a rough-edged staccato. Tip tip tap, tip tip tap tap. Jack feels his heart soaring up into his throat and making his tongue leaden. "Have you written anything lately, Jack?" Lu continues. "It has been a while since I've felt truly inspired. Which is quite the shame." Lucien strides over to the other side of Jack then, presumably to snatch the cigarette from the mouth of the woman nearby--sucking on it hard and letting the drag burn his lips--but Jack knows it is really just so that his back is turned and his expression hidden, the tremor of his limbs less visible. "The potential of this world has seemed to grow narrower and narrower." Lucien flicks a match to life and re-lights the thieved cigarette. "I need your words to stretch it out and run with it." 

Jack is far too concerned to feel heart-warmed by Lucien's praise. Without a thought, he stands up, pushes his chair back, stalking towards Lucien once more and clapping a rough hand onto his shoulder. He twirls Lu around to face him, and Lucien looks angry at the forcefulness of the contact--startled, confused. He opens his mouth, but finally Jack edges in a word. 

"You haven't been home in 2 weeks," Jack murmurs quietly, taking the cig from Lu's fingers and snubbing it out in the nearest ash tray. "Why?" 

Lucien's jaw locks. He swallows, represses the anger, but his voice cracks thickly anyway. "Home is a relative concept," he mutters, fists balled tightly. "Wherever there is liquor and literature, there I shall find shelter.'" 

Jack laughs; the sound is bright and sad. "Lu, you're making up some bullshit," he says, shaking his head. "Why did you leave? Was it something I did?" 

At this Lucien seems to soften. His anger deteriorates into fizzling embers. He sets his drink down and stares, blue eyes wary but somehow gentle. "No," he whispers, very softly. That is all. 

But Jack only gets louder. Suffice it to say the only reason he refused a drink earlier was because he's had enough already on his way here, his heart a mesh of broken beer bottles, ever since Lucien careened away. "Then what was it? Why the fuck did you leave?" he says, words slurring a bit, eyes stinging with messy tears. "Was it David? Did that bastard force you to stay away from me? Did he hurt you? I swear to god if he laid a finger on you I'll cut him open, I'll--"

"No, Jack, it wasn't David," Lucien grits out, his chest rising and falling heavily with the emotion he pushes back into his curled fists. He swaddles himself in anger again, though now it is halfhearted. "Could you drop it? I am safe. Everything is fine." 

Jack lets out a noise that sounds as if it belongs to a wounded animal, runs his hands through his tousled hair and tugs, hard, screwing his eyes shut before they slide open again, staring at Lucien in desperation. "Fuck, Lu, I miss you," he stutters out, sounding broken and hopeless. Lucien's eyes glaze over. His fingers shake harder. He reaches for his drink again. Jack stops him. "No, Jesus, come on Lu, I don't know what's going on and if you don't love me then you don't have to come back, but at least tell me what it is. What I did. What's going on. Please." 

The bar suspends. People around them laugh and murmur and sip at their drinks but it is all sluggish and unfocused. Jack sees the terror in Lucien's eyes, then, that breathless concoction of paranoia and hurt turning the irises to slates of grey. At that moment he seems young, and much too high to be healthy. With hesitation he bites his lip, before reaching for Jack's hand and tugging him immediately across the bar and out the door, the crisp night air swallowing their limbs in October bitterness. 

As soon as the bar doors slam shut behind them Lucien lets go of Jack's hand and walks briskly across the street, fingers twining into the feathery locks of golden hair atop his head. Jack knows, despite his doubts, that Lucien intends for him to follow, and so he does, jogging up beside Lucien with a worried expression, always hovering. 

Finally Lucien stops at the other side of the street and lets out a loud shout, stomping his foot like a five year old and curling his fingers harder into his hair, yanking and yanking. Jack shivers, reaches up to carefully pry Lu's fingers from his hair but it is no use, both of their hands tremble far too much. Eventually, Jack gives up and settles with rubbing a hand against Lu's back. Lucien shudders and shudders but does not shake the hand off, which Jack takes as a good sign, if anything. The city before them is a blur. Men and women stumble past, their heels click-clacking against the sidewalk pavement as they blend into the black of the gravel street and the night sky and the alleyways, the shadows devouring every inch in every broken-glass-shard corner of landscape. And in the center of it all, Lucien Carr and Jack Kerouac, neither sober, both teeming with tears and ugly noises. Finally, Lucien brings his head up. He does not look at Jack. 

"You had to return," he breathes out finally, breaking out into lilting laughter. He stumbles, struggles to keep himself upright. Jack catches him and tires to ignore the way the words shatter their way into his heart and leave it bloody and beating. "You had to find me, didn't you?" 

Jack is not sure how to respond. Eventually, he settles with a solemn nod, still holding tightly to Lu. "I can't let you go without a fight," he whispers, his hand smoothing down Lucien's back with such open gentility. A sob rips from Lucien's throat, a sudden detonation. He chokes it off and suppresses. Quietly, Jack adds, "I'm sorry." 

For a moment, Lucien seems mute, almost thoughtful. Then, suddenly, "How long did you search for me?" 

"Started the minute I realized you didn't plan on coming back." 

The jeweled eyes slide shut. Hands twist back into the blonde strands but do not yank, only settle, as if needing to feel a mess between the open spaces. "What I feel for you," Lucien begins, so quiet Jack has to lean closer to catch it, "is terrifyingly volatile. Love is violent, Jack. This is--I can't." He swallows and the words seem to pain him going down, for he shivers as if he's swallowed a bloodied dagger. "I can't. This is too permanent. The cement in my heart--" His words drop. 

As understanding blooms in his chest Jack sags in relief, tension draining from his limbs, letting out an airy sigh. Yet Lu's words are still far from pleasant, and Jack's frown stretches like a scar across weathered skin. "Lucien," he begins tepidly, the pound of his heart audible, bleeding into his throat. "What do you mean?" 

The hands untangle from honeyed locks and Lucien throws his head back to laugh wetly, his neck littered with bruises, pale and exposed, porcelain against obsidian night. "I am not built to finish stories," he mutters scathingly--though the anger is not directed at Jack. It is toward himself. "You should know this. When I am offered a chance to mold something beyond its base properties, it shatters." 

Jack bites his lip to draw blood. His tears are fresh and they splatter the pavement in pools of dark color. "You're terrified," he rasps, the pain in his chest bursting only for Lu, always for Lu. 

"You're a detective," Lu retorts. 

Silence. Crickets strike up a discordant chorus and seem to widen the night, widen the cold. Lucien and Jack both shiver but neither have the strength yet to reach for each other. Lucien's pink lips are cracked. The boiling high in his eyes is bubbling down to something less vibrant--now he is just unbearably silent, limbs taught and tense. Jack is scrambling at the scraps of his drunken mind to try and find the words to bring Lucien back to him. Though the sentiment is enormous there are so very few of them. But he tries. Jesus, he has to. 

When he finally speaks, it is plain, it is simple. 

"Lucien, I love you," he whispers, tentatively curling a hand against Lu's cheek, tilting his face towards the light of a flickering street lamp, their gazes meeting fervently. Lucien's eyes are sickly, bright with wind. "You don't have to return the sentiment. But if you _do_ ," he sucks in a shaky breath, "please let yourself feel it. Whatever you think you might do to me, I'll take it. I'll take anything, kid, Jesus, just let me be with you." 

A pause. Lucien does not say anything. In compensation, Jack feels the tears in his throat spilling out into his hands, in the form of broken words, shivering voice, shattered tongue. "Love is not violent," before Lu has a chance to interject, Jack presses a finger to his lips, "I'm sorry you've learned of it that way. But what we've had so far? It's the gentlest thing I've known in my life. The most beautiful. And if you're scared of--of this being too permanent, if you don't want it that way, it doesn't have to be. We don't _have_ to think of this as some, some endgame thing. But Jesus Christ, Lucien Carr," he mutters, the finality of his words bone-like and brilliant, "if you love me, then _love_ me. Please." 

Time seems to stutter and pulse. Jack's heart pounds. The words are all he has. Lucien Carr is all he has.

It seems like something out of a poem, the way Lucien so suddenly and finally sinks into Jack, his breath whooshing out in sweet rivulets of icy rose, his hands shakily coming up to grip onto Jack as his forehead falls against his shoulder, his tremors worryingly violent, his soft hair brushing against the bareness of Jack's warm skin. Immeidately Jack clutches onto him just as tight, burying his lips in Lucien's hair and kissing and kissing and kissing, soft and desperate, all at once. "Thank you," he murmurs, for he knows the way Lu falls into him is as much of an affirmation that he will receive. "God, thank you." 

The only thing Lu manages, his fingers small and childlike, voice a pane of shattered ice, is, "Please take me home." 

And Jack does. As the story goes, Lucien returns--and if he runs away again, Jack can expect one of three things: he is either far too sober or far too high, and he will always come back. 

 

(That night is spent curled around each other. For the first time in two weeks, Lucien presses his lips against Jack's and both feel revived. Lucien apologizes. Jack shushes. They fall asleep together. Jack does not hear the "I love you." Lucien is okay with that.)


End file.
